Like this:

Fire-flower, there is a sweetness in your cruelty
The abused becomes the dispossessed
The martyr becomes a sadist, I saw it though the colours
Of your ember bows, the way you’d turn, night into day

There, we are all rogues, swash-buckling heroes
Where even the victim in me can repose at the feet
Of another abused child of the world
We are not equals in the games of power

I am not a man, you are not a woman
We are only mythologies, projections, illusions
Fire-flower, I taste raspberry hiccups
When I think of you, the fruitful vulnerability

Of your moods, where like a jungle of helplessness
Is born the more severe and thwarted beauty
An artist needs to suffer to possess their genius
Like a naked child wanting to become somebody

Fire-flower, there is no pain in your adornment of betrayal
When you expect the dog to bite, the wound is cute
The nature of narcissism is entirely predictable
In the traits that define our social norms

Even the women are not truly rebels
They already fight too many battles to disobey
Their sense of pride and back-water morality
Art is not like that, it’s wild and ferocious

I am not a lesson, and you are not my teacher
You are a stranger that I know so entirely
It would shock you if you knew, my deep understanding
Of your own pain, mirrored back silently at you.

The trees they rise up
As if up from their own free will
Into the light, wild, happy
Strong, if only I could be that way
But nature did not make me strong
And I was not born free
But chained, enslaved, shy

But what if the dreams
Were grafted to my branches
Like fruit and I could see
The horizon with replanted forests
What if I could breathe clean fresh
Perspectives for breakfast?
Fit with buds for birds to ransack

Or pollen to spread nature
The true nature of our spontaneous
Selves, the inner-child without her mask
The trees they rise up
For too many generations, with
The secret of the ancient taste
From our growth what silver fir

Reveals the truth that was our destiny?
It was not the water, wood, air, light
These were only elements
Of how we found what we were made of
It’s just that way if I am a barren stem
I won’t be blown around as much
Nor catch the eye of creatures

There are no ballads, crown-nests, no Songs!
That can relate living Experience
But the dreamers attempt the impossible
The translation being their variety
Of experience, the music goes on

Dying by the movement of our
Glossy selves, impermanent transactions
The drift of what we considered
So pragmatic, so terribly necessary
Years later appears as foolishly stubborn

There will be no great feasts at the
End of this, only nature and time
And other transparent necessities
The leafless hours and departed ships
Are no more, all that we know intimately
Will become extinct, such is the exqusiite
Depth of belonging, and not belonging.